In Which Music Is Influencing Me, Again.

pounding, that beat
slams,
that song hits with
every dark or dusky word,
with every
lung-wrenching riff,
each cymbal crashing like
eyes clenching closed
or wounds sewed shut,
the very sound is body is
arms-legs-neck-shoulders
thrown hard against
walls of air or
your own life,
brain against skull --
the only struggle you have
left within you,
inescapable and
pounding.

In Which I Love Summer Storms.

these clouds don't hang
so much as swoop in
on rising winds and
fading light,
calling the girls
in their summer apathies
to dance
just as surely
as would the sanguine roll
of a doumbek
or the lighting-chimes of
a good set of zills.